Kipling Stories and Poems Every Child Should Know Part 11

VI

THE GALLEY SLAVE

Oh, gallant was our galley from her carven steering-wheel To her figurehead of silver and her beak of hammered steel; The leg-bar chafed the ankle, and we gasped for cooler air, But no galley on the water with our galley could compare!

Our bulkheads bulged with cotton and our masts were stepped in gold-- We ran a mighty merchandise of Negroes in the hold; The white foam spun behind us, and the black shark swam below, As we gripped the kicking sweep-head and we made that galley go.

It was merry in the galley, for we revelled now and then-- If they wore us down like cattle, faith, we fought and loved like men!

As we s.n.a.t.c.hed her through the water, so we s.n.a.t.c.hed a minute's bliss, And the mutter of the dying never spoiled the lover's kiss.

Our women and our children toiled beside us in the dark-- They died, we filed their fetters, and we heaved them to the shark-- We heaved them to the fishes, but so fast the galley sped, We had only time to envy, for we could not mourn our dead.

Bear witness, once my comrades, what a hard-bit gang were we-- The servants of the sweep-head, but the masters of the sea!

By the hands that drove her forward as she plunged and yawed and sheered, Woman, Man, or G.o.d, or Devil, was there anything we feared?

Was it storm? Our fathers faced it, and a wilder never blew; Earth that waited for the wreckage watched the galley struggle through.

Burning noon or choking midnight, Sickness, Sorrow, Parting, Death?

Nay our very babes would mock you, had they time for idle breath.

But to-day I leave the galley, and another takes my place; There's my name upon the deck-beam--let it stand a little s.p.a.ce.

I am free--to watch my messmates beating out to open main, Free of all that Life can offer--save to handle sweep again.

By the brand upon my shoulder, by the gall of clinging steel, By the welt the whips have left me, by the scars that never heal; By eyes grown old with staring through the sun-wash on the brine, I am paid in full for service--would that service still were mine!

It may be that Fate will give me life and leave to row once more-- Set some strong man free for fighting as I take awhile his oar.

But to-day I leave the galley. Shall I curse her service then?

G.o.d be thanked--whate'er comes after, I have lived and toiled with men!

VII

THE s.h.i.+P THAT FOUND HERSELF

It was her first voyage, and though she was but a cargo-steamer of twenty-five hundred tons, she was the very best of her kind, the outcome of forty years of experiments and improvements in framework and machinery; and her designers and owner thought as much of her as though she had been the _Lucania_. Anyone can make a floating hotel that will pay expenses, if he puts enough money into the saloon, and charges for private baths, suites of rooms, and such like; but in these days of compet.i.tion and low freights every square inch of a cargo-boat must be built for cheapness, great hold-capacity, and a certain steady speed. This boat was, perhaps, two hundred and forty feet long and thirty-two feet wide, with arrangements that enabled her to carry cattle on her main and sheep on her upper deck if she wanted to; but her great glory was the amount of cargo that she could store away in her holds. Her owners--they were a very well-known Scotch firm--came round with her from the north, where she had been launched and christened and fitted, to Liverpool, where she was to take cargo for New York; and the owner's daughter, Miss Frazier, went to and fro on the clean decks, admiring the new paint and the bra.s.s work, and the patent winches, and particularly the strong, straight bow, over which she had cracked a bottle of champagne when she named the steamer the _Dimbula_. It was a beautiful September afternoon, and the boat in all her newness--she was painted lead-colour with a red funnel--looked very fine indeed. Her house-flag was flying, and her whistle from time to time acknowledged the salutes of friendly boats, who saw that she was new to the High and Narrow Seas and wished to make her welcome.

"And now," said Miss Frazier, delightedly, to the captain, "she's a real s.h.i.+p, is n't she? It seems only the other day father gave the order for her, and now--and now--is n't she a beauty!" The girl was proud of the firm, and talked as though she were the controlling partner.

"Oh, she's no so bad," the skipper replied cautiously. "But I'm sayin'

that it takes more than christenin' to mak' a s.h.i.+p. In the nature o'

things, Miss Frazier, if ye follow me, she's just irons and rivets and plates put into the form of a s.h.i.+p. She has to find herself yet."

"I thought father said she was exceptionally well found."

"So she is," said the skipper, with a laugh. "But it's this way wi'

s.h.i.+ps, Miss Frazier. She's all here, but the parrts of her have not learned to work together yet. They've had no chance."

"The engines are working beautifully. I can hear them."

"Yes, indeed. But there's more than engines to a s.h.i.+p. Every inch of her, ye'll understand, has to be livened up and made to work wi' its neighbour--sweetenin' her, we call it, technically."

"And how will you do it?" the girl asked.

"We can no more than drive and steer her, and so forth; but if we have rough weather this trip--it's likely--she'll learn the rest by heart!

For a s.h.i.+p, ye'll obsairve, Miss Frazier, is in no sense a reegid body closed at both ends. She's a highly complex structure o' various an'

conflictin' strains, wi' tissues that must give an' tak' accordin' to her personal modulus of elasteecity." Mr. Buchanan, the chief engineer, was coming toward them. "I'm sayin' to Miss Frazier, here, that our little _Dimbula_ has to be sweetened yet, and nothin' but a gale will do it. How's all wi' your engines, Buck?"

"Well enough--true by plumb an' rule, o' course; but there's no spontaneeity yet." He turned to the girl. "Take my word, Miss Frazier, and maybe ye'll comprehend later; even after a pretty girl's christened a s.h.i.+p it does not follow that there's such a thing as a s.h.i.+p under the men that work her."

"I was sayin' the very same, Mr. Buchanan," the skipper interrupted.

"That's more metaphysical than I can follow," said Miss Frazier, laughing.

"Why so? Ye're good Scotch, an'--I knew your mother's father, he was fra' Dumfries--ye've a vested right in metapheesics, Miss Frazier, just as ye have in the _Dimbula_," the engineer said.

"Eh, well, we must go down to the deep watters, an' earn Miss Frazier her deevidends. Will you not come to my cabin for tea?" said the skipper. "We'll be in dock the night, and when you're goin' back to Glasgie ye can think of us loadin' her down an' drivin' her forth--all for your sake."

In the next few days they stowed some four thousand tons' dead weight into the _Dimbula_, and took her out from Liverpool. As soon as she met the lift of the open water, she naturally began to talk. If you lay your ear to the side of the cabin next time you are in a steamer, you will hear hundreds of little voices in every direction, thrilling and buzzing, and whispering and popping, and gurgling and sobbing and squeaking exactly like a telephone in a thunder-storm. Wooden s.h.i.+ps shriek and growl and grunt, but iron vessels throb and quiver through all their hundreds of ribs and thousands of rivets. The _Dimbula_ was very strongly built, and every piece of her had a letter or number, or both, to describe it; and every piece had been hammered, or forged, or rolled, or punched by man, and had lived in the roar and rattle of the s.h.i.+pyard for months. Therefore, every piece had its own separate voice in exact proportion to the amount of trouble spent upon it.

Cast-iron as a rule, says very little; but mild steel plates and wrought-iron, and ribs and beams that have been much bent and welded and riveted, talk continuously. Their conversation, of course, is not half as wise as our human talk, because they are all, though they do not know it, bound down one to the other in a black darkness, where they cannot tell what is happening near them, nor what will overtake them next.

As soon as she had cleared the Irish coast a sullen gray-headed old wave of the Atlantic climbed leisurely over her straight bows, and sat down on her steam-capstan used for hauling up the anchor. Now the capstan and the engine that drove it had been newly painted red and green; besides which, n.o.body likes being ducked.

"Don't you do that again," the capstan sputtered through the teeth of his cogs. "Hi! Where's the fellow gone?"

The wave had slouched overside with a plop and a chuckle; but "Plenty more where he came from," said a brother-wave, and went through and over the capstan, who was bolted firmly to an iron plate on the iron deck-beams below.

"Can't you keep still up there?" said the deck-beams. "What's the matter with you? One minute you weigh twice as much as you ought to, and the next you don't!"

"It is n't my fault," said the capstan. "There's a green brute outside that comes and hits me on the head."

"Tell that to the s.h.i.+pwrights. You've been in position for months and you've never wriggled like this before. If you are n't careful you'll strain _us_."

"Talking of strain," said a low, rasping, unpleasant voice, "are any of you fellows--you deck-beams, we mean--aware that those exceedingly ugly knees of yours happen to be riveted into our structure--_ours_?"

"Who might you be?" the deck-beams inquired.

"Oh, n.o.body in particular," was the answer. "We're only the port and starboard upper-deck stringers; and if you persist in heaving and hiking like this, we shall be reluctantly compelled to take steps."

Now the stringers of the s.h.i.+p are long iron girders, so to speak, that run lengthways from stern to bow. They keep the iron frames (what are called ribs in a wooden s.h.i.+p) in place, and also help to hold the ends of the deck-beams, which go from side to side of the s.h.i.+p. Stringers always consider themselves most important, because they are so long.

"You will take steps--will you?" This was a long echoing rumble. It came from the frames--scores and scores of them, each one about eighteen inches distant from the next, and each riveted to the stringers in four places. "We think you will have a certain amount of trouble in _that_;" and thousands and thousands of the little rivets that held everything together whispered: "You will. You will! Stop quivering and be quiet. Hold on, brethren! Hold on! Hot Punches!